Unknown

You wrap up early, putting away dishes and rolling up yoga mats before the night even settles properly. Eagerly awaiting. The weather forecasters fall over themselves to announce the mayhem approaching. You are tempted to set your alarms. 

Do you remember, there was a Sunday morning when we woke up to the sound of snowflakes falling on the red brick building, on the treelined street, on our eyelids if we wanted it? We stayed in bed until it got dark again and each lingering hour was a gift we gave each other. Everything was quiet then too, but not from the street, only from inside, a settled peace that draped itself across our lungs, undulated in our veins, I loved you with an understated assurance, I have worn many winter coats since then and never felt it spark that same way. He writes me now, and I think I prefer to greet the snow in solitude. 

The winters are long and the life is short. My super yells in the street as he pours salt on the sidewalk. I go to bed early. 

What else is there to do?